


A Sound of Thunder

by wigglebox



Series: Supernatural - Season 15 Coda Fics [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Buried Alive, Canon Compliant, Claustrophobia, Coda, I Love You, Insanity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Purgatory, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wigglebox/pseuds/wigglebox
Summary: A horrible ending, a good ending, and a hesitant beginning.15x09 Coda
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Supernatural - Season 15 Coda Fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514216
Comments: 27
Kudos: 138





	A Sound of Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when we couldn't take the heat  
> I walked out, I said, I'm setting you free  
> But the monsters turned out to be just trees  
> When the sun came up you were looking at me

**ONE**

The Trap

The place remained untouched even after eleven years. Dean wondered if Cas would recognize it, but then decided it didn’t matter. 

It’d all be over in a manner of seconds. 

Wave after wave of nausea kept Dean company while he waited. The ability to eat for the last three days had left him, and he felt shaky and cold. Eventually, Dean sat down on the workbench (he can see where his knife dug into the wood all those years ago) in order to give his legs a break, otherwise he’d fall over. 

Dean silently wished that this wouldn’t work. 

Then, the wish turned into begging for a time machine to go back and undo the choice to put the heaviest burden of all on Cas, merging the rest of his existence with an irreversible curse. Dean would also go back, preferably to a time before they made that choice, and say the words he was too chicken shit to say. It was only those two things. Two stupid little things that snowballed out of control. 

Nausea coursed through him again, and Dean closed his eyes; his fingernails dug into the wood under him. 

In the corner, in the shadows, rested a box large enough to hold a grown man. 

Forever. 

Drawing in a deep breath of country air, Dean exhaled quick and harsh, then repeated it again and again. It didn’t help much, but it gave him something to keep his mind distracted. If there wasn’t a distraction of some kind, any kind, then it’d fall back into its new hobby of screaming at Dean to take a shotgun and put the barrel against the roof of his mouth. 

But he couldn’t. The thought cycle in his mind would eventually go from wanting to blow his brains out, to then chastising him for thinking that; Cas had sacrificed himself just so Dean _could_ have a happy ending and not end in tragic death like Chuck wanted. 

Irony of all ironies being now Dean was never going to have a happy ending. 

Which led right back to him wanting to pull the trigger, and wanting that time machine. 

The box, the stupid thing that Dean had to rebuild from scratch, stayed in his peripheral; static, cold, and laying still like an alligator, ready to snap from the shadows. 

Every day, hour, minute Dean worked on the damn thing he felt gripped by fear; never letting Dean out of her grasp. Flashes of his own imagination kept plaguing him with every cut and nail hammered into the wood. Miles under the ocean with the weight of water pressing down on him, unable to move, unable to die--unable to do anything but lay like a corpse, waiting and waiting for something that would never come.

The nausea was soon joined by the sinking feeling of dread that spread to the tips of his fingers and toes, causing an unpleasant buzzing sensation. True to routine, what would come next would be a feeling of a strongman’s hand reaching around Dean’s neck, making it hard to swallow, breathe, and even turn his neck. Sometimes tears came with it, and sometimes he had none left. 

This time, tears didn’t come, which Dean figured was a good thing. It’d tip Cas off as soon as he arrived. 

Dean went back to hoping the plan didn’t work, and they had to figure something else out.

But, they knew there was nothing else. 

Dean had yelled. He wasn’t sure what he said, but he yelled, to which Michael and Sam yelled back. The mark couldn’t be sizzled off the way it had been done with Dean’s. Not only did they have none of the resources that they did back then, but once it had been destroyed, it unleashed a large and untameable force, nearly ending the world because of it. 

The mark now on Cas held back something even worse.

They had asked Amara months prior if there was anything else they could do, but she said no. The mark was literally the only way to keep Chuck back without completely destroying the universe. Someone always would have to sacrifice themselves. Dean went on to explain that when Cain had the mark, he was doing just _fine_ until--

Didn’t matter, Amara had said. The mark had been passed down, and Cain had still been a ticking time bomb, just with a longer fuse. Dean’s was shorter, but he still could have gone a long while had he the discipline. 

What they created to lock away Chuck, God, was new and fresh, brimming with chaotic energy. It didn’t matter who it went on--

It would drive anyone crazy. 

Sitting on the table in the barn, Dean decided to stop thinking altogether. He couldn’t give anything away; tone, words, inflection--everything had to be unwavering and convincing. The clock tipped its hands closer to the 12, and Dean sighed. 

“Hey--are you there?” he started, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking, “I want to see you. It’s been a while and I miss you. I’m uh--I’m alone so you don’t have to worry about Sam or anyone.” 

Dean stood up but still leaned against the table, attempting to look casual and trying not to look at the box. It kept wanting to draw his gaze over like a super-magnet. 

Less than a minute later, the aluminum roof above Dean’s head rumbled; soft at first, then increasing in velocity, creating a thunderous noise. It was an incoming storm that rattled around in Dean’s head, stirring up everything he had tried to suppress moments before--

The banging stopped abruptly. There was no dramatic entrance like last time with lights exploding or doors bursting open. Instead, the door creaked open; slow and cautious, letting in only a sliver of moonlight. 

Cas no longer appeared right before Dean anymore. He had already been ambushed once like that, and it took a couple of months to get his trust back (“I didn’t know they were gonna do that. They didn’t tell me”).

Dean stood and waited for Cas to assess the place from the doorframe. 

“I promise I’m alone,” Dean lied, keeping his voice soft and steady, “Can you come here, please?”

It was like beckoning a rabid dog.

Without a word, Cas shuffled into the barn, only pushing the door closed a little behind him. He didn’t advance toward Dean however, choosing to stay out of the light. Dean almost welcomed it. Each and every time he saw Cas now, he looked worse and worse, deteriorating by the day.

The coat was shed months prior, and Dean still had it in his room. The jacket under it was also gone, but Dean wasn’t sure where Cas left it. The tie still hung around Cas’s neck, loose and unkempt. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, always displaying that damned mark. 

Dean could see it glowing blue, dim and barely there in the dark barn. 

Everything about Cas was coming more and more undone each day, and when Dean would see him, it only served as a reminder of that time bomb that Amara had warned them about. It felt like Cas was burning at both ends. The cracks had begun only five months into having the mark. Each time he’d stand in front of Dean, the circles under his eyes looked worse; his skin gaunt and losing any life it had to it; his hair was unkempt, uncared for and forgotten. Cas had started to look like he was on the verge of death. 

Eventually, after a minute of silence, Cas shuffled forward and Dean saw the angel blade pointed vaguely at him. The paranoia began settling in four months ago. The blade shook, and as Cas entered into the light, Dean could see just how wild Cas’s eyes had gotten. They darted around before settling back on Dean. There was a twitch in Cas’s jaw as well-- that was something new. 

But despite everything, seeing Cas in front of him made Dean almost forget the entire plan. 

“Hello Dean,” Cas smiled, but it was crooked with the corners of his mouth also twitching like they didn’t want to stay still. 

The thought of the shotgun again came to Dean’s mind. 

“Hey--come here,” Dean called Cas over, keeping his voice low and non-threatening. Obeying, Cas put away the blade and moved forward into Dean’s space, the twisted smile still on his face. Dean fought to keep his own face neutral, a disgust already growing for the grotesque expression. 

When they first made the plan, Dean was automatically deemed to be used as bait again. He was the only one who could call Cas and not get seriously hurt or killed when Cas showed. No matter what, even after the first failed attempt to trap him, Cas still always came when Dean called. No one else could make an attempt unless they wanted an unhinged Cas ripping their insides out with an angle blade.

They learned that lesson eventually after too many casualties. 

Cas crowded Dean, pushing him back against the table. Dean went willingly, eventually hoisting himself back up onto it while Cas closed the space between them. Like it was the simplest thing in the world, and they were just two ordinary people, Dean’s dangling legs stretched out and drew Cas in the rest of the way so they eventually pressed together. Dean would need the grip. Silent, and still working on muscle memory, Dean slid his arms around Cas as well, hands pressing against the back of his shirt. He could feel the outline of bones under the fabric. 

This was how it was always supposed to be: No mark, God defeated; everyone alive, dinner on the weekends, and doing nothing on a Saturday morning other than laying around in bed and showering each other in--

“Why here?” Cas asked, his voice low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked for the month he hadn’t seen Dean. 

Dean didn’t pull away. He needed to have a hold on Cas, “We’re in town for a thing and I didn’t want you showing up near Sam.” 

“So you picked a barn?” Cas asked. His tone sounded steady, which only made everything worse. Dean almost wished he’d caught Cas during a bad time. It would make everything slightly better; at least put it in better perspective. 

Dean shrugged and shivered when he felt the arms around him adjust and the mark pressed against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel it through two layers and onto his skin. It burned so hot, Dean wondered if he’d get an imprint of it. 

“Wait--I know this place,” Cas said a moment later, pulling back and leaving a void Dean desperately wanted to close again. He only had a minute or two left and wanted to get every last second crammed into his memory--

Cas stepped back, and Dean dropped his legs and shifted off the table while Cas turned. The glow of the mark brightened for a second before fading back to the regular dullness. Dean’s eyes glanced to the box, tucked behind the tractor. Cas hadn’t seen it yet.

When he turned back to Dean, a real smile emerged on his face; not twitching, not twisted or half-formed, not hiding anything. The untouched barn _did_ ring bells in Cas’s head, bringing him back to the present and pushing through the effects of the mark. 

“They replaced the lights,” Cas pointed up, still smiling, “And painted the walls.”

Dean stared at Cas’s face, unblinking; he wanted that image to burn into his mind. 

Reaching back out, Dean pulled Cas back into him, greed and selfishness overtaking him. Time was almost up but maybe if Dean held on, the seconds could be extended, giving them more time together.

Cas went willingly, all the nervous twitching and anger seemingly melting out of him at the sight of the place. It all felt normal again in that moment. Even the mark felt less hot this time. Dean closed his eyes and felt the tears almost unleash without warning as Cas nestled closer; Dean could feel whatever constant thrum Cas had coursing through him begin to subside--it was all back to normal. 

Dean heard a breeze rattle the tree outside, causing it to scrape against the side lazily. Nothing too obvious. 

What Dean wanted to say was, _I love you,_ but instead, what came out was “I’m sorry.”

Cas didn’t have time to react at the apology before Dean felt him stiffen in his arms. Dean didn’t let go; he didn’t want to see the expression frozen on Cas’s face. A second later, Cas went completely limp and Dean held on tight to keep him from falling to the floor too fast. Exactly 12:19 a.m., just like Michael had said. 

Trying to keep his breathing under control--trying to _remember_ to breathe--Dean knew he had short window to work with, and got moving. He half dragged, half carried Cas over to the box, still refusing to look at his face. He didn’t want to tarnish that last image of a rare, true smile and light in his eyes that wasn’t malevolent.

The box’s top was already off slid off for easy access. Holding his breath, Dean slid Cas in, adjusting him so he laid flat. 

Like it was a coffin. 

After he straightened out Cas’s legs, Dean withdrew his hands fast as if burned. They gripped the side of the box as Dean knelt down, keeping his head facing the opposite way. He couldn’t look, he couldn’t look, he _can’t_ look--

Invisible hands tugged at Dean’s face, and he obeyed. Turning his head, his eyes fell on Cas’s face. 

In an instant, Dean’s heart plummeted through him, smashing through the concrete he sat on. He felt his entire body go numb as his head filled with a harsh, piercing white noise.

While the rest of his body remained still, unable to move, Cas’s eyes were still wide, staring at Dean in horror; his mouth couldn’t open to say anything. Dean had never seen that amount of fear on Cas’s face before, and the nausea slammed back into Dean at full force, almost knocking him back.

The mark pulsed bright blue rapidly; angry and scared. It knew what was about to happen and was trying desperately to break Cas free from his invisible constraints. 

Dean kept his eyes on Cas as he moved over to that end of the box. He put one hand on the top of the box while allowing his other one to reach in and rest on Cas’s cheek. It felt cold. Dead.

What he wanted to say was, _I’m sorry_ , but now came, “I love you”; the words seeming like a parody. He wanted to keep saying it until it brought back the feelings it was meant to bring. But it never _was_ like that and never _would_ be like that. 

Dean was too late back then, and he was too late now. 

Cas’s face started to twitch again, and his arm started to move, raising itself in janky movements like it was still struggling against an unseen force. His hand outstretched like he was trying to go up and cover Dean’s hand with his own. 

Horrified, Dean withdrew his hand before Cas could make it. He grabbed the box top with both hands, turned his head away, and pulled it over before his muscles rioted against him. At once his hands got moving on the locks. Michael’s spell was already lifting and if Cas could move effortlessly, then he’d destroy the box before--

The locks secured themselves, sealing Cas in. 

Unable to keep his strength anymore, Dean slid back until he fully rested on the ground. He pressed his forehead against the wood and could hear small rustling movements and the dull sounds of a restrained, quiet cry. A surge of disgust rocked through Dean but he stayed near the box. He shouldn’t be there, but he had to stay. He had to stay and listen.

Dean finally allowed the tears he had been restraining for an hour to fall, but forced himself to stay quiet. There was no way for him to talk his way into feeling better, or making Cas feel better. 

The rustling got more intense, and soon the box was shaking despite the heavy wood. The restrained cries turned into unintelligible shouts as Cas gained more control of his body and voice. 

Dean knew he should be out of the barn now, giving Sam and Michael the all clear... but he couldn’t pull himself away. His body wouldn’t cooperate, and instead wanted to give in to that pull that always drew Dean close to Cas. It didn’t understand what was going on.

The wish for the time machine became an almost legitimate desire, his mind scrambling on options--Billie or Amara, since that’s all that was left, but Billie wouldn’t do that. No one would do that for him. 

Michael would laugh in his face. 

But maybe if things were said earlier, and Dean wasn’t an insecure asshole, this wouldn’t have had to happen. 

The first time he said it was three months after the mark embedded itself onto Cas. Dean was in the kitchen while Sam and Cas were in the library area talking about--Dean couldn’t remember, but whatever it was, it had gotten heated. In almost an instant, Dean heard normal voices turn to shouts, and then the shattering of glass and various things hitting the wall. 

He had rushed into the room to see Sam on the floor, pressing his hand against his face where a piece of glass had cut him, looking stunned. 

Cas had his back turned and was bracing himself against the wall, hanging his head and breathing heavily. Around them were books, ripped apart or bent out of shape, some loose paper lying far from its home. A lamp had crashed to the floor, its glass surrounding the area and still beautifully reflecting the light. The few bottles of booze out on the table had apparently been thrown across the room, leaving wet marks where they had collided with the wall. 

That was the first time Dean felt a true sense of fear and panic. 

He glanced at Sam who shook his head and gestured to Cas. Nodding, Dean took a few steps toward Cas, slow and cautious. As he got closer and saw a peek of the mark, it was the first time it started to glow a bright blue. When Dean placed a hand between Cas’s shoulders and eased into his sideview, the mark’s glow then dulled. 

Behind them, Dean heard Sam haul himself to his feet and hurry out of the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, voice small and quiet. 

Dean said nothing and guided Cas out of the library, down the hall, and into his room. 

The panic drove Dean to finally say it, which was just another mistake piled on top of all the others; the fear that Cas would slip away too fast, and that maybe saying them now would stop that. A quick “I love you” injected into Dean’s his sentence as he talked Cas down from whatever agitation took hold. He was earnest but also used it as a desperate attempt to bring Cas back under control. 

Dean kicked himself for waiting until that moment, and he continued to kick himself as Cas got worse and worse while time marched on. 

They weren’t meant to be said under those circumstances. Those words were meant to be said in the quiet where no one else could hear them, when the walls and guards were down and there was a bright horizon waiting for them; they had to be said when the world wasn’t in danger and there were no stakes at play; they had to be said pressed against each other while having the ability to tune everyone else out. 

But they weren’t said then.

And now, Dean sat in the barn where they first met, on the floor, resisting the enticing temptation to throwing open the box and climbing in as well. 

“Dean?” the voice called out, muffled, but terrified. Dean winced as he continued to press his forehead against it. It was too small, too scared, too unlike Cas that Dean in a stupid moment thought he’d locked someone else away. 

He didn’t say anything. 

“Dean, are you still there?” Cas’s voice got louder, filled with terror and confusion. 

A sudden slam against the roof of the box forced Dean to pull his head back in shock. 

“Let me out!,” Cas shouted, the rising panic horrifying to hear, “Let me out of here Dean!”

The slamming punctuated every word and Dean scrambled backward. The strong, invisible hand around his throat came back and he felt dizzy with the lack of air. The sudden desire to see the box destroyed in a fit of rage flared in Dean. An explosion of exorbitant power and Cas would flee immediately. It’d happened before--why couldn’t it happen again? Dean would never see Cas again, but at least he wouldn’t be buried six feet under--

Hands grabbed Dean and he shouted, turning around to see Sam trying to get him off the floor. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to tell them when Cas was inside and locked up so Michael could get the box back outside. 

Michael himself stood a little ways away, face contorted in a mix of pity and regret. But he said nothing as he marched forward. 

Dean didn’t realize Sam had him restrained until he tried going back over to Cas before Michael could get there. 

“It had to be done,” Sam said, sounding near to tears himself. Dean wanted to punch him. “There was no other option.”

The box continued to move as Cas slammed his hands against it from the inside with various shouts. Cas’s terror was morphing into anger, and his cries started to turn into animalistic howls. The fear emitting from the box was almost palpable, and Dean had the taste of metal in his mouth. He’d bitten his cheek way too hard. 

Sam’s hands gripped Dean on the upper parts of his arms as Michael levitated the box ahead of him, unable to touch it himself.

As Cas felt the box move, his noises shifted back to panicked shouts, calling for Dean over and over as Michael moved to the door. The room started to shrink around Dean, the edges of his vision growing dark. Had Sam not been holding him, he probably would have collapsed. 

Every cry for Dean was another tangible piece of his soul that broke off and shattered on the floor beneath his feet. He was coming apart at the seams, one stitch at a time. 

The cries got quieter as Michael moved out of the barn. Sam let go of Dean, but Dean could still feel wary eyes watching him. 

The noise moved from the front of the barn, over to the side, finally behind them where the box came to rest in the gravel. 

By then, every inch of Dean seemed to shut down, thrown into automatic-pilot. His legs carried him to the barn door on their own; each step felt like he had cinder blocks attached to his ankles, but he somehow made it to the door. Sam had made a half-assed attempt to stop him, but didn’t put much heart into the action.

The unusually warm, late-October air made Dean feel all the more claustrophobic. Nothing moved, there was no real breeze, and even the birds and insects didn’t want to visit this place. Everything sounded dead. 

Dean followed the path to the back of the barn where he saw Michael begin to lower the box into the ground. It still shook with Cas’s desperate attempts to break free. 

There were still cries for Dean mixed in with _please_ and Cas’s assurances that he’d try and keep himself under control. Each word sounded worse and more desperate than the last; sounded like a completely different person. Only when Cas called for Dean did the echoes of familiarity come back.

As the box disappeared into the hole, Dean took a deep, shaky breath. There was a dull sensation in his chest like someone was punching it from the inside.

He wondered if he was about to have a heart attack, and then decided he didn’t care all too much. If he died, he died. If he lived, he lived. Didn’t matter at all anymore. Nothing was going to ever be a satisfying end. 

As Dean approached the hole, he once again thought of the shotgun back in his car. And _jeez,_ it would just be so much easier if Cas could die and everything was still as it should be. Dean would at least know where he was more or less, and that he wasn’t trapped in a human-sized magic box in the Illinois dirt. Dean would know for sure he didn’t have access to Cas anymore, and the temptation to dig anything up would be obsolete. He could go on living, knowing that Cas wasn’t--

Screaming for Dean. He was definitely screaming now. 

Michael went over to the pile of dirt like he meant to push it all back on top of the box in one go. 

“No,” Dean heard the words, but couldn’t tell who said them. It may have been him, but it didn’t sound like him. “I’m gonna do it.”

Sam, who had followed Dean out of the barn, stepped forward and blocked Dean’s movement to the pile. 

“That’s too much. Let us do it.” He had tears on his face as well, highlighted by the moonlight, but Dean didn’t care how it affected Sam or if it was also going to be a difficult task for him. He didn’t need pity. 

“I’m doing it, get out of my way,” Dean said, again hearing his voice but not recognizing it. 

Sam knew better than to argue, and moved out of Dean’s way while rubbing a hand over his face. Any other day, the thought of how much _both_ of them had lost up to this point would give Dean pause, or cause some kind of guilt to manifest at how he was acting. They both lost a lot and pretty much had no one left other than unreachable people. Michael was the closest thing to a “friend” they had, but he’d be leaving after all this. 

Then they’d be alone again. 

Even trapped under lock and key, Chuck still got his ending. 

Michael backed off from the pile as Dean picked up a shovel and kept his back to Sam. The cries from the pit had quieted as Dean spoke and the slamming had stopped. Dean waited until he heard Sam and Michael walk away before he sat down on the ground and pushed the shovel away. On his hands and knees, he crawled over to the edge of the pit. 

It was a grave, except the body would never die. 

_Go down there and open it_ , the call from the void challenged Dean. It was exactly that kind of suggestion that had made Michael want to throw the box into the ocean. No one could get to it. When he had mentioned it, he had glanced at Dean to implicate him. Dean hadn’t blinked. He knew the temptation would be strong, but he pushed for land instead of sea anyway; being trapped in a casket is bad enough--feeling the pressure of the ocean above you and knowing for sure there’d be no escape was even worse. 

But now, as Dean looked down below him, he understood what Michael was getting at. 

Already he was thinking of maybe in a year, two--hell even five just to really throw everyone off the trail--Dean could come back here and dig everything back up. 

“Dean?” A voice called from below. Cas was no longer shaking the box, getting the gist that he will never break it apart himself. “Dean, are you still there?”

The question sounded small and scared, trying for a last ditch attempt at freedom. It didn’t sound like Cas at all. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Dean said against his better judgment. He shouldn’t be talking, he shouldn’t be talking, he shouldn’t be talking-- _grab the shovel and get to work, idiot_.

“Please let me out,” the small voice came back. 

“I can’t.”

“There’s another way to deal with this,” Cas said, the tone switching from scared to downright begging. Dean cringed at the words, “Please let me out--we can figure it out, we always figure something out--”

Dean took a deep breath, forced himself to stand up and grabbed the shovel. No more words. If he kept talking then he _would_ crawl down in there. The pull felt like it was strangling him. _Do it, do it now, jump in and rip open the locks. You know you can’t live without--_

Trying to distract himself from the voice, Dean took the first scoop of dirt from the mound next to him and watched it fall, almost in slow motion, into the pit. 

As soon as the particles and rocks hit the wood, the savage yells and banging came back. Dean poured some more dirt, the sound melding with Cas’s horrific yells. There weren’t words anymore from him, just screeching and rattling the box around. 

In a way, it made it easier; whatever was in there wasn’t Cas anymore. Whatever it was deserved to be down there, under six feet of soil and rocks. Whatever it was had killed the person Dean loved, and it was irreversible. The thing that took hold of Cas was something that should never see the light of day again.

With each pass from dirt mound to pit, Dean repeated those words to himself. 

Dean continued to shovel dirt, one scoop at a time. Cas once again switched tactics and began shouting Dean’s name for help. Dean ignored the thing’s cries, and continued the job.

Dean kept on shoveling until the sun came up, promising a hot and stuffy summer day. 

The grave was finally filled, silencing Cas forever. 

**TWO**

The End 

The problem with infinite worlds and endings, a less-desirable scenario would play out, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. 

When it manifests, there’s the attempt to kick it into the dark corner, burying it under other things that are hated and born into scorn. If they’re ignored, they’ll just be forgotten about, correct? Out of sight, out of mind. 

But that doesn’t mean it will disappear, only fester. 

Chuck felt its presence even more in that stupid casino. It pulsed and trembled and Chuck tensed when he began feeling the scenario’s desire to shoot out on its own and start shouting out of control. It didn’t go with the theme playing out between Chuck and Sam or help achieve what Chuck needed. Chuck himself didn’t think of it; the scenario was a rogue one, popping into existence one day without any warning. It was a useless, idiotic scenario; it was also indestructible and growing into a large timer that Chuck had to beat like he was in a race with the thing. 

Chuck was terrified of it. 

It was still strange getting a full night’s sleep. 

Waking up in the morning to the sun slowly marching across the floor and not feeling like he’d been hit by a truck was nothing short of amazing.

It took Dean nearly a year to assure himself that yes, it was all real, and yes, it was here to stay. 

Sunday mornings were the best because there wasn’t a rush to get out of bed. The bar wasn’t open on Sundays, allowing a break at least once a week. Not that the work wasn’t fun, but sometimes it was more fun to just lounge around and do nothing all day. Nothing pressing, nothing urgent--just a normal Sunday. 

Sometimes he takes a full weekend to himself; that’s the whole point of having co-workers. On those weekends, he and Cas travel a couple of hours north for a short stay at Jody’s. She once lamented she never thought “empty nest syndrome” would get to her, but it did, and she hated it. They would show up with arms full of booze and food and the promise of a relaxing weekend, which it always was.

But mostly, Dean and Cas just chilled out around their small space without having to think much, which was a welcome switch. There used to be a time where Dean didn’t even know it was Sunday, or a Wednesday, or any day of the week--they all just blended together into one blurry mess of chaos and confusion.

They earned these Sundays; they earned the small farmhouse just fifteen minutes away from the bar; they earned the peace and quiet every night as they fell asleep and every morning when they woke up. They earned it all. 

One Sunday morning, a year and a half later, Dean woke up before the sun started to rise. 

Blinking himself awake, Dean’s eyes landed on the east window next to him. The sky was barely bruised with the sun’s first rays of light, and he frowned. He hadn’t woken up this early in a long time. 

As he came to, Dean felt a wrongness to the air. There was a cold feeling inside him, and it caused him to shiver like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on him. There was some slight nausea, and Dean realized that even with how cold he felt, the pillow under his head felt hot and his skin had a clammy glaze on it. 

As Dean turned to sit up straight, convinced another panic attack was about to arrive, he realized Cas wasn’t next to him. 

Frowning, Dean moved his hand across the mattress and felt how cold the sheets were. Cas hadn’t been there for a while. Dean sat up even more and looked over to the bedroom door. It was still closed, but he could see light emerging from the gap by the floor. 

Sighing, Dean slid out of bed, dragging the throw blanket on top of it with him and wrapping it around himself. They hadn’t dealt with a morning like this in a while, and Dean was (stupidly) hoping that the worst of it was done. 

They both had issues moving on after everything was said and done on the cosmic level. It was believed by both of them that Cas’s transition to a human life came too soon after the fact without time to process what had happened, causing the panic and stress to balloon rapidly. Every ounce of self-doubt and paralyzing fear poured into Cas and there were nights in the beginning where they didn’t get any sleep. Dean suffered as well; when his thoughts got loose, unchecked, they spiraled and spiraled until they muted him for a few days, making him unpleasant and frustrated. 

But Cas didn’t have a lifetime of experience with emotions on this level.

He had mentioned once during that time--during one of their all-nighters--that being full-on human simplified everything to the point where all the white noise and details were gone. 

“Shouldn’t that mean you deal with less instead of more, though?” Dean had asked, confused. 

Cas shook his head, “There’s less distraction. When I try to eat something as an angel, it’s full of complication and tastes like nothing. Now, since all the details are gone, I can focus on what it actually tastes like.

When I would start to feel too much, it was easy to hide myself in the universal details. There was so much that I could easily lose the sadness or--or the fear. But I don’t have anywhere to hide behind anymore. I feel like I’m being bombarded.”

After that explanation, Dean had a better understanding, and they went forward learning how to deal with the residual after effects of everything. But, they had one thing going for them:

Everyone lived. 

Everyone lived; everyone had found their place; everyone had found who they needed to go forward into this second half of living. Everyone had settled down, and while the anxiety that they were living in some manufactured snowglobe world came back from time to time...everyone eventually moved on. 

Cas sat at the far end of the couch, next to the lamp, with a book open in his lap that he wasn’t reading. 

Dean shuffled over to Cas still trying to shake the residual sleepiness off. Cas didn’t look. He didn’t look when Dean sat down on the other end of the couch, back against the pillows; he didn’t look when Dean extended his legs and gently nudged Cas with his foot. 

“Dollar for your thoughts,” Dean said, watching Cas’s expressionless face, worry beginning to rise. It had been at least two months since a morning like this. 

After a moment of silence, Cas sighed and looked down at his book. 

“I thought it was ‘a penny for your thoughts’,” he said, his voice quiet as he turned a page. 

Dean shrugged and scooched down the pillow, pushing more against Cas as he bent his legs, “I think we’re worth more than a penny.”

Cas finally looked over, and Dean’s heart sank at the sight of how red his eyes were. He’d clearly been up for most of the night.

“What’s wrong,” Dean asked, sitting back up and withdrawing his feet, opting to shift closer to Cas. He knew what was wrong, and they both hated that question--but sometimes it still slipped out. 

Closing the book, Cas slid it onto the end table next to him, “Just a bad dream.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. There was no “just a--” with them. If it was a bad dream, then it was a bad dream, and--

“It’s bad enough to keep you up all night,” Dean said, frowning, “What was it about?” 

Truthfully, he didn’t want to know, and he knew Cas didn’t want to tell, but, they both had figured out early enough into their new relationship that voicing what bothered them in that moment made it easier to deal with; bringing it out into the light did more good than shoving it back down and letting it fester. 

Closing his eyes and frowning, Cas reached over and grabbed Dean’s hand. A good sign. 

“I can’t remember it very well, but it was dark and I felt... trapped,” Cas started, his voice almost a whisper now, “I was yelling and there were little slivers of light above me, someone saying something--I thought I heard you at one point. I don’t know, it just felt like I couldn’t breathe or move.”

Dean watched as Cas drew in a shaky breath. 

“Anyway, I woke up and the room was still dark and I thought I was still in there. Couldn’t go back to sleep, so I just came out here,” Cas finished, his hand gripping Dean’s tight, almost painfully. 

Cas had this dream before, but nearly a year ago, and slightly different where instead of in the dark, it was red and there were hands grabbing at him in the tight space. He said it was like a coffin, and somehow, it smelled like dirt and rot. It was one of the first nights Cas woke in full panic mode, practically screaming and every inch of him drenched in sweat. Dean wasn’t in that dream, though.

That detail was new. 

The look on Cas was one Dean didn’t want to see anymore. It reminded him of the darker days together, following them week after week for eleven years. In the last year and a half, Cas looked less drained and tense, no longer hardened by whatever the world threw at him. But sometimes the look came back, and it drove a spike of sadness through Dean. 

Their life now wasn’t supposed to be constant fear and stress. 

The window across the room showed the faintest hint of a sunrise, the rays still dull and asleep on the horizon. There was a slight reflection on the clouds that hung over, not quite extending all the way across the sky, and Dean sighed at the prospect of a rainy day. He was thinking of taking Cas on a walk, maybe into town to get some take out. He’d have to listen to Cas point out the fact that they already _had_ take-out last weekend and then Dean would playfully argue back, knowing he was going to eventually win. 

Dean wanted to get Cas out of the house, but they were going to spend the day indoors. 

Looking back over at Cas, Dean decided to take action before the rain settled in. He lifted himself off the couch, letting the blanket fall behind him, and walked over to the other side of the room. His hands gripped the window sill, and he lifted it up in one smooth motion. Not looking over at Cas, Dean moved over to the window on the other side of the TV and also lifted it up; a shiver ran through him as the cool, pre-stormy air hit his bare skin. 

Dean continued around the room and into the kitchen, opening every window he could, the breeze following him in and covering his skin in goosebumps. 

He finally got to the last window, the one right next to Cas on the couch, and pushed it open as well. The small space that was the living room and kitchen filled with rain-scented air, and Dean could already hear thunder in the distance. It was chilling but electrifying, and when Dean turned back to Cas, he saw life and color make its way back into his face. 

“You’re not trapped anywhere,” Dean said, moving himself back over to the couch to hide under the blanket. He should have put a shirt on. “Feel that? You don’t get that while trapped in a box or coffin or whatever it was.”

Cas stared at the same window he had before, but his eyes looked wider, more alive and alert. The slight breeze jostled his hair a little, and the curtains rode the air. Cas didn’t look scared, shrinking into the sofa anymore; Dean smiled. 

As rough as these mornings were, coming back out of them started to get easier. 

Cas looked back over to Dean, the smile not quite there but there was _something_ beginning to form. That look threw another shiver down Dean’s spine as he tightened the blanket around himself, sinking back into the pillows. 

“It’s too cold,” he whined but keeping the smile on his face, knowing it definitely morphed into a challenging smirk, “I’m not doing anything.”

Cas looked away, this time truly smiling, and put the light onto its lowest setting, throwing the room into an almost-dark state, but with still enough light for them both to see they weren’t trapped in a void; for both of them to still see each other. 

Dean hiked the blanket in his fists up to his eyes, truly cold, but still let his legs drop open at the first utterance of _I love you_ from Cas, placing his right foot on the floor. He jumped when cool hands managed to find their way under the blanket. They pressed into the parts of Dean that had warmed up under the fabric, and Cas grinned at the gasp it elicited. As Dean let the blanket fall away, and cold hands traveled lower and lower, they figured out what to do with their rainy Sunday. 

**THREE**

The Beginning 

It was for the best Cas stopped Dean from saying it. 

For a moment, while they walked on, Dean kicked himself for not correcting Cas in the moment. But, eventually, a small voice piped up and reminded him that _now wasn’t the time_ , _don’t be selfish_.

A louder, crueler voice settled in by the time they reached the rift. 

_You haven’t earned that yet_. 

Did that mean all the other times he wanted to say it, he didn’t earn it then either? The answer to that was most likely yes; otherwise it would have been said by now. If it was meant to happen at some point in the years they knew each other, it would have happened already. There was a slew of times in their history Dean thought he should have said it:

He should have said them seven years ago while also traipsing the shitty landscape that was Purgatory; He should have said them six years ago instead of kicking Cas out of the bunker; He should have said them five years ago when he felt himself slipping to the point where he’d never be able to say them again; He should have said them four years ago when Dean thought he’d be cosmic dust by the end of the day in order to _save_ the day; He should have said them three years ago in his room instead of being pissed off for trivial reasons; He should have said them two years ago before he saw Cas truly die before his eyes; He should have said them when Cas came back, somehow, in once piece; he should have said them a year ago instead of saying _yes_ to the wrong angel, and after he managed to climb back out of that black pit. 

He should have said them two minutes ago, standing in the woods as relief flooded his system pushing any icy panic out in an instant. 

But he didn’t. The wrong words always came out, regardless if he was trying _so hard_ to get the right ones out of his mouth. When Dean said what he said after discovering how Mary had died… he felt that poison pill pop in his throat again, seizing up his muscles and thinking power--he couldn’t look at Cas’s face. When confronted weeks ago by Cas, the wrong words again. Instead of “Please stay” it was something harsh and instantly regrettable. None of it went how he wanted.

Always the wrong words. 

Even now. Instead of announcing he had something to say, he should have just _said it._

But no, Dean’s mouth just locked up and he swallowed the words once more. This time, he tried giving himself some leeway. Cas may have been mistaken, but they were also sprinting against a timer that couldn’t care if they lived or died. Sam was still trapped, Eileen too, and life was still in the shits. _Now’s not the time_. 

_Did you think you were gonna say it and then everything would magically be better?_ the cruel voice continued as they made their way into the bunker, Cas rushing to the table as Dean trailed behind. _Did you honestly think that what you had to say was going to fix anything?_

The storm built itself up to explode once again in Dean’s head, the thunder threatening whatever peace of mind he had when he saw Cas safe, waiting for him against the tree. The storm was a familiar one, and usually, Dean accepted its course as it rocked his mind and body with fear and stress. Now, the taste of shame began to rise in the floodwaters. His words in that prayer started to ring back into his head while the spell began to manifest itself. The parroted words sounded childish and whiny and Dean felt the flames of embarrassment make their way up his neck and into his face. 

It had been the closest Dean had gotten to saying it. 

_What makes you think he wants to hear it?_ The cruel voice continued, unrelenting. 

Nothing. Maybe there was once or twice over the years they may have have been on the same page, but they weren’t anymore. Dean’s heart wasn’t as heavy after that quick purgatory adventure, but what was left unspoken hung over him, pressing into the back of his mind.

But he kept his mouth shut, feeling the words slowly begin to die as he and Cas worked the spell. Dean kept his mouth shut and mind focused on the task at hand. Don’t get angry; don’t get irritable; don’t let the confusion draw everything off course.

 _Keep yourself in check_ , Dean reminded himself; a familiar saying he’d told himself for years now. 

_Don’t be selfish_. _Wait, for however long it takes._

If it ever were to happen at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Boy oh boy, hello everyone! Hope everyone had a good holiday season.  
> 15x09 killed me, as I'm sure it killed all of y'all. 
> 
> I couldn't decide what to write since there were three things I wanted to write--so I wrote all three. Thank you to my beta, [KelpietheThundergod/Cuddlemonsterdean(tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod) they are the best and I couldn't ask for anyone better to help keep me in my dang grammar lane and to make sure things make sense. 
> 
> Sorry, the sad thing is the longest. I couldn't help it. 
> 
> Honestly, the biggest challenge was trying to match the same emotional level that Bobo wrote and that everyone acted into the episode. I need that guy to host an emotional writing Masterclass or something.
> 
> Anyway, these two idiots love each other and we have to suffer and wait for them to get a damn clue. Also, Chuck sucks and I hope he steps on a lego. 
> 
> (Title is from a Ray Bradbury short story on the butterfly effect and the song lyrics are, of course, from Taylor Switft.)
> 
> -Jen | wigglebox/tumblr/twitter


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